


moonlit misunderstandings

by wellhellofuture



Category: Bon Appétit Test Kitchen (Web Series)
Genre: Cape Cod, F/M, Making Perfect: Thanksgiving, Pining, Sauci Saffitz is a QUEEN, This Pic Relies on Misunderstandings, braffitz
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-14
Updated: 2020-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-12 18:02:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,937
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22719925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wellhellofuture/pseuds/wellhellofuture
Summary: Sauci Saffitz has had three glasses, or maybe four, of delectable merlot and feels like meddling.
Relationships: Brad Leone/Claire Saffitz, Claire Saffitz & Sauci Saffitz
Comments: 3
Kudos: 75





	moonlit misunderstandings

**Author's Note:**

> this all started because i had one single scene in a dusty attic stuck in my head and i couldn't get it out. also, i adore sauci saffitz.
> 
> thanks as always to @stupidsecretthings for reading & being so kind + encouraging. you're the best.
> 
> let's be cool - remember the rules of rpf club.
> 
> happy valentine's, friends! enjoy

Sauci Saffitz has had three glasses, or maybe four, of delectable merlot and feels like meddling.

She adores having such life and liveliness in her home again; while the BA crew is loud and boisterous, they’re also respectful and generous to a fault. She’s barely had to lift a finger since they’ve arrived.

So it’s with great contentment that she surveys the group after a wonderful dinner of lobster rolls and suggests, “Would anyone like to come dig upstairs in the attic with me? I have a beautiful tablecloth buried somewhere that you’re welcome to use to set the table tomorrow.”

She pretends to pause for emphasis.

“There’s also a fair chance of finding some baby photos of Claire up there too.”

The chefs, nearly melted into the couch in a lull of full bellies and good wine, jump to their feet in anticipation. Claire, for her part, rolls her eyes and sighs but dutifully follows along as they traipse up the creaky staircase.

Sauci hides an indulgent smile as she notices Brad step back under the ruse of politely letting Claire climb up before him and then can’t help but stare at her swaying hips.

Sure enough, the old photos of the girls from birth through graduation are boxed up near the top of the stairs. Molly and Andy coo over a mop-headed, stripe-clad, elementary school-aged Claire, then Carla finds her senior photo and starts rattling off Claire’s accomplishments.

“Art Fair Steering Committee, NHS, National Merit finalist, Harvard Book Award...wait, Claire, you played volleyball? And softball? What positions?”

“Hm? Oh, yeah, I played varsity all four years. I was shortstop in softball, I think? Libero in volleyball for sure - I was too short to play anything else.”

“Libber-a-whoocho? Claire! Soundin’ more and more like me every day,” Brad says, poking his head out from behind her dad’s tool chest. There’s a dull crash and he winces, like something fell on his foot.

“Libero, Brad. It means I played in the back row and was only good at passing,” Claire explains gently.

Sauci snorts. “Don’t sell yourself short, dear. You were always hitting the floor so hard diving after all those balls. I think you had bruises on your knees for a solid four months straight, poor thing.”

Chris just raises a slow, pointed brow at the subtle innuendo and the entire room cracks up.

“Oh come on, you guys. It’s - she didn’t mean - thanks, mom,” Claire groans, hiding her face in her hands.

“Sounds like my kind of sport,” Andy manages, eyes shining with mirth, before dissolving into giggles.

“Tell me more about this li-bro-bro business,” Brad says loudly, his booming voice cutting the room. He senses, as he always can, that Claire is edging past embarrassed into uncomfortable. She shoots him a relieved glance, then carefully picks her way across the cluttered attic.

She hip-checks Carla to dig deeper into the acrylic case housing the mementos from her years in St. Louis. She’s pretty sure her mom kept parts of her senior night display - ah, there; the bold royal blue from the Clayton jerseys catches her eye. She gently wiggles the photo binder loose and makes her way back to Brad.

“See?” Claire says, flicking slowly through the pages. “I’m always in the back row, you can tell it’s me ‘cause my shirt’s orange instead of blue. Liberos get a special shirt because they can switch with anyone in the back row.”

Brad feels every joint in his body lock up at photo after photo of lithe, young Claire launching herself across the court. She’s got that look in her eye he recognizes, all single focus and utter determination, but it’s her outfit that’s got him in stitches. Fucking spandex, that’s all he has to say. Bright blue, even in the faded and poor-quality photos, and so tight he feels kinda gross staring at her eighteen year old body. He can’t help but wonder if the shorts still exist somewhere and he sort of hates himself.

By the time they reach the end of the album Brad has completely lost track of what Claire’s saying and the rest of the group has largely calmed down from the giggle fit. He manages to focus enough to notice that the last photo, evidently taken on Claire’s senior night, shows her standing proudly next to one of those old fashioned signs where you can slide letters on and off. She’s holding her jersey, grinning, and pointing at a list of WOMEN’S VOLLEYBALL - TOP DEFENDERS. She has nearly four hundred recorded digs across her four years on the team, beating the previous record by dozens. He’s simultaneously impressed and grateful for something to comment on before his brain spits out a stupid comment about her getup.

“Claire! Look atcha! Killin’ it from the beginnin’, Half Sour. I _dig _it,” he says, proud of himself. Lame puns are kinda his thing.

Claire’s nose does the scrunchy thing when she’s trying not to laugh, so she rolls her eyes instead.

“They gave me my jersey for beating the record,” she says, going thoughtful. “Hang on - lemme - “ and she’s off, scouring the far corner of the attic for some unknown quarry. She leaves the photo book in his hands and he’s torn between scurrying it away for future perusal or dropping it like a hot iron. Before he can decide, he hears a triumphant “Aha!”

Molly trots over to where Claire’s squatting in front of an antique wooden trunk. Brad pointedly ignores the way her ass bobs in the air as she shifts her weight, gently pushing up the lid.

“I think - oh, here, Brad, think fast.” An orange blob comes flying his way, and when he catches it he reads “CHS” across the front in big blue block letters. Brad definitely does not dwell on the thought of Claire peeling off the jersey after an especially sweaty game and passes it to Rick for further perusal.

“Hey, Mrs. S, I think we found your tablecloth,” Molly calls from the corner. “White and lacy, you said?”

Sauci, having been quietly observing Claire and Brad’s exchange from her perch near the stairs, peers over Molly’s shoulder. A soft smile, sort of melancholy and wistful, spreads across her face.

“Oh, no, dear, that’s my wedding dress,” she admits. “I’ve kept it all these years in the hope that one of the girls might want it one day.”

The female cohort of the group lets up a collective “Awwww.” Claire tenderly lifts the mass of vintage lace and drapes it over her arms. Brad can’t remember ever seeing her like this, the deep ties she has to her roots showing more clearly than ever.

“That reminds me of my mom’s dress,” Carla adds. “She saved it for me and my siblings’ weddings, but none of us ever wore it. Kinda regret that now.”

Christina takes her turn brushing her fingers softly against the lace. Brad, losing interest in the conversation, starts poking around in the toolbox again. Maybe it won’t belch wrenches on his feet this time.

“This is absolutely gorgeous, Claire. You’re so lucky, most moms’ saved wedding dresses have those ugly puffy sleeves but this one’s so simple and elegant. Hell, I’d wear that on my wedding day,” he hears Christina say.

Now Andy joins the inspection of Sauci’s dress. Brad knows he’s a Fashion Connoisseur and all, but come on. It’s just a dress; it’s not worth everybody getting worked up over.

“Have you ever tried it on, Claire?” Andy asks. “You and your mom could be twins, I’m sure it’d fit.”

Sauci does the hand wave that all older women do when complimented, the oh-shush-but-don’t-really.

“I’d love to see it on you, Claire, honey. You never know if I’ll actually live to see the day you walk down the aisle - if you ever do.” Sauci even sticks her nose in the air for haughty emphasis, the wine and her audience adding to her flair for the dramatic.

Molly tugs on Claire’s sleeve, her eyes wide. “Try it on, Claire, c’mon, please? Pretty please?”

“Honestly, it’d be a crime not to. That much vintage lace? On you? Gawg-eous,” Carla agrees.

Claire worries her lip, a smile playing at the corners of her mouth. She’s had a couple glasses too and though she holds her liquor better than her mother, she’s just loose enough to want to do something crazy. Something like trying on her mother’s old wedding dress in front of seven of her best friends.

“Alright,” she agrees. “Yeah, okay.”

Brad doesn’t know when finding a tablecloth and maybe some baby pictures turned into a fashion show, but he’s not gonna complain, especially when Claire’s eyes are shining like that. He watches from behind the tool chest as she carefully gathers the mound of white into her arms and slips behind the trio of bookcases forming a sort of hidden corner in the shadows.

The others continue exploring the attic, making little exclamations of surprise or laughter as they find retro toys, baby shoes, and outdated decorations, but Brad feels like his ears are on fire. Every creak, every rustle - is that Claire’s clothes falling to the floor? Is that her shifting her weight as she slides her naked body into the dress?

Rick popping up beside him to check out the ol’ whittling set - Brad forgets Rick does woodworking in his spare time too -startles him enough to send a box of screws scattering across the floor. Rick shoots him an odd look, but then again when is Brad not jumpy, so Brad just ducks down to start cleaning up his mess.

He’s still chasing down the last few errant screws when Claire finally emerges. All in quick succession, Brad hears Molly give a soft gasp, then Andy wolf whistles. Rick gives a sharp “Ow ow,” and Christina just says, “Oh, _Claire_.”

Brad carefully balances the now-full box of screws back on the tool chest and finally rounds the corner to join the others. Weirdly, he feels a pair of eyes on him, and he glances up to see Morocco’s gaze flit away. He all but forgets that, though, when he catches sight of Claire skimming her hands over the waist of the gown.

For a wedding dress from the seventies, it’s pretty damn timeless. It’s entirely made of soft cream lacy stuff, and he has the odd thought that it looks like the royal icing piping work Claire adds to her rare wedding cake commissions. The neckline goes straight across her chest, just below her collarbone, and her shoulders peek out above. The skin that does show is warmed by the off-white color of the dress, looking the most healthiest of pinks.

Though the dress is by no means revealing - the long skirt, full sleeves, and empire waist definitely show less skin than most of what Claire wears to work - Brad gets the idea that Sauci Saffitz wasn’t quite as curvy as her daughter on the day she married. The bust is snug in the most appealing way and his eyes can’t help but to be drawn to the easy slide from neat waist to full hips to smooth thigh. Claire’s flushed and beautiful, eating up the compliments from their coworkers, examining the lace on the sleeves and smiling that big ol’ grin of hers.

Something clunks in Brad’s stomach, way deep down, like an engine that’s gone off kilter. See, he knows how to fix things, for Claire and for his car and for his parents when something breaks in their house. He doesn’t know how to fix the lump in his throat when he sees Claire Saffitz looking ethereal in the hazy light of the attic, wearing a wedding dress he’s never seen but that instantly fits every fantasy he’s ever had of her.

He feels frozen to the spot, itchy and too hot with the mostuncomfortable of lumps settling in his throat. Claire notices him emerge from behind the tool chest and cocks her head, smiling that special smile she saves for him. She opens her mouth to ask his opinion, and oh God what is he gonna say he can’t tell her she’s beautiful that’s completely inappropriate and he certainly can’t tell her he wishes more than anything he has a ring in his pocket so they can get married right this instant dusty attic and all oh God oh God what is he gonna do —

Blessedly, it’s at that moment his cell rings.

“Gotta take that, it’s Hunzi,” he announces to no one in particular, despite the fact that the phone is still squarely in his pocket. Brad thunks down the stairs before anyone can ask what he thinks of Claire in the dress. He’s pretty damn sure he’d make a fool of himself no matter what he said.

It’s only Claire who notices he says it’s Hunzi without even glancing at the ringing phone.

Once everyone’s done oohing and ahhing over the dress, once it’s carefully nested back in its home in the trunk, Sauci lingers at the top of the staircase. Before Claire can follow her friends downstairs, her mother snags her by the wrist.

“Claire, honey. That friend of yours, Brad. You ever gonna tell him?”

Taken aback, not quite caught up yet, Claire doesn’t process what her mom means at first.

“Huh? Tell him what, mom, to be more careful around old tools?”

Her mom looks at her indulgently, patiently. And hold up one minute there, Claire’s seen that look. She’s seen it when the neighbor kid kept hanging around their house back in St. Louis, always asking if Claire wanted to go split a sundae. And she’s seen it when she brought her classmate Pierre home for winter break because flights were too expensive for him to go back to Marseille. Even last year, when Claire took the train from the city for a long weekend and waxed poetic about the new chef from Chelsea Market who had the most wonderful ideas about crusty grilled cheese and milkshake mix-ins.

She has got to nip this in the bud.

Hands on hips, eyes narrowed, Claire stares her mother down.

“No no no no absolutely not,” she says firmly. Quite convincing, she thinks. “Whatever you think is happening, it is definitely not, and we’re not talking about it. Because it’s not happening.”

Sauci just laughs, that familiar-as-ever bell tone that makes Claire remember family game nights and movie watches. Her resolve softens just a little bit.

“Sweetheart, even if I wasn’t your mother, you wear your emotions like most people wear clothes. It’s been all over your face all day.”

Claire’s heart stutters in her chest, a quick bump-bump-bump in its normal rhythm. God, if her mom could see it so clearly in a matter of hours, then everyone must know. Carla and Molly and Chris and Andy and_ literally_ _everyone _has seen her moon over Brad for what feels like years now. And oh, fuck, _Brad_ must know - he’s been acting strange all week leading up to the Cape Cod trip - she can’t go back to work -

Lucky for Claire, her mom’s just as good at picking up on her mental panics and gathers her into a hug.

“Shhhh, love bug,” she murmurs, Claire’s long-forgotten childhood nickname soothing her raw nerves. “Everything will work out, it always does. What do we say?” she prods, lifting Claire’s chin with a few strong fingers.

“Saffitzes are the strongest and we always make it through,” Claire parrots back. The melodic pattern of the familiar syllables settles around her like a blanket, snaps her out of her crazed thoughts.

“Am I really that obvious?” she whispers, craning her neck to look her mom in the eyes.

“You got a lotta love in you, baby. It’s only natural to let it out sometimes.”

Later, after everyone’s headed back to their AirBnB for the weekend, Claire finds Brad at the end of the dock, swinging his legs and staring at the sky. He’s decided to stay in his tent in their backyard - something about not being able to resist being so close to nature - and despite her arguing that they have a perfectly fine guest room, there’s no need to sleep on the _ground _for goodness sake, he can’t be budged.

“Hi,” she says, holding out a bottle and two glasses. “Mom opened this and threw away the cork, but she only drank one glass. I can’t find our reusable corks, so we gotta finish it. Wanna help?”

Instead of answering, Brad does a sort of hop-thing to move over from the center of the pier so she has room to sit beside him. Claire eyes his deltoids flexing as he lifts his body weight with ease. She passes him the bottle - a nice cab, one that’s too good to let sit open all night and be flat in the morning - and uses his shoulder as a ledge to balance her weight as she settles next to him on the dock.

She offers him one of the wine glasses. “Pour?”

He snorts.

“We’re already dirtyin’ up too many of your ma’s plates this weekend to waste glasses, Half-Sour, think we can just share?”

He raises the bottle to his lips and quirks an eyebrow at her. When she shrugs - they work in a test kitchen, after all, they’re constantly testing and retesting dishes from the same spoon, she and Brad more than most - he tilts his head back and takes a deep pull.

She most definitely does not watch his Adam’s apple bob and catch the light.

“Smooth,” is all he says when he passes her the bottle. She shivers ever so slightly when their fingers touch.

“Cold, Claire?” he asks. The sticky heat of the late July day has worn off, and in her thin cotton shift, with the cool breeze coming off the bay, yeah, she kind of is.

“Not for long,” is her response as she takes her own long swig. The wine is ever so slightly warm, bursting over tongue in a heady blend of rich florals and sharp tannins.

“Damn, this is good,” she sighs, hugging the bottle to her chest and gazing out across the gentle laps of the sound. “I wish the others were here to see this.”

Brad hums, distracted, and plucks the bottle out of her grasp. He’s been quiet all day, perking up during dinner but still not full of the restless energy she’s come to associate with Brad Leone.

She gives him a quick poke in the side.

“Is something wrong, Brad?” she asks softly. “You’ve been weird today.”

He barks out a laugh, too harsh in the stillness. “I’m always weird, Saffitz, don’t know whatcha surprised about.”

It’s still not right, though, not him; he can’t quite manage to hit the happy-go-lucky grin he tries for at the end. When she looks him in the eye, he looks brittle, like he’s about to splinter into a million pieces all across the dock.

Whatever he sees in her gaze doesn’t sit well with him. He turns away to take several quick mouthfuls of wine and continues to stare moodily across the water.

It’s then that Claire remembers the glint in her mother’s eye when the crew had been cleaning up the remnants of dinner. She’d been sneaking glances at Brad all night, Claire’d noticed, and like ice down her back she realizes what’s wrong with him.

Sauci Saffitz is definitely the kind of mother to take matchmaking into her own hands, even when - especially when - it’s completely unwarranted.

First the wave of humiliation washes over her, then immense sadness. She can’t blame Brad, not really: they are literally contractually obligated to get along and act cutesy in front of the cameras and her mother’s evidently just dropped some bomb about how Claire not-so-secretly moons over Brad from afar. The sharp pang of loss pierces her chest, the mere thought of having to distance herself from Brad making her ache all over, but she shoves it down and focuses on damage control.

“Look, Brad…God, I am so sorry. My mom, she…she said something to me earlier.” Claire feels her cheeks flush, feels like she’s positively radiating heat, and it’s hard and awkward and embarrassing but she makes herselfcontinue, her tongue tripping over the words as she forces them out. “Something about you. And I’m sorry if she…whatever she said, forget about it, it’s nothing. She doesn’t mean anything by it, I swear.”

Brad goes very still beside her. The moment that passes is uncomfortably tense and silent.

“Claire, what in the hell are you talkin’ about?”

“I - my mom - she didn’t say something to you at dinner?”

He barks out a laugh, bitter like the cocoa she uses in her black forest tartes. When he turns to face her, the harsh set of his jaw scares her.

“Naw, she didn’t say anythin’ to me. Didn’t have to.”

Any hope Claire still has of a quasi-normal future, one where she and Brad can still share a bench and trade jokes and help each other through the brutality of filming days gives a last little flutter before crumbling to ash. She couldn’t even blame her well-meaning mother, either; apparently she’s just too damn transparent to hide even an ounce of the overwhelming feelings she has for this incredible man.

“Oh,” she chokes out, desperately fighting the heat rising up her throat and settling behind her eyes. “I - I’m really sorry, Brad. I never meant for this to happen, truly, I -“

He cuts her off, voice flat and emotionless.

“I don’t need your fuckin’ pity, Saffitz, I’ll get over it. Just gimme some space for a while, will ya?”

His shoulders are curving in on himself even as he speaks. He’s visibly uncomfortable and Claire wants nothing more to curl up in a ball and die. She hates that she's made him feel this way, that her inappropriate crush has bloomed into something so visceral and noticeable that it's pushed him to the point of -

The bottle slams against the top of the dock with a dull crash that makes her jump. Claire’s doesn’t remember when they emptied it.

“I swear to God, Claire, can I just please have ten goddamn minutes to think and then we can pick it all apart together with that big fuckin’ brain of yours,” Brad snaps, finally losing the thin veil of control he’d managed to keep all evening.

And that’s what does it. Some last little thread deep inside her finally gives, because while she and Brad have been at each other’s throats dozens of times over stupid little things, he’s never - not once - been outright cruel to her. She can’t help but be hurt and she knows it’s not smart, knows she should really go inside and find her mom’s emergency Ben and Jerry’s, but the part of her that’s wanted Brad Leone for the past five years just can’t call it quits so easily.

Completely off-balance and unable to hide the first tears thickening her voice and leaving glossy trails down her cheeks, Claire stumbles up from her perch on the dock. Her breaths come quick and ragged, her shoulders heaving, but she focuses on tamping down the pain for thirty more seconds.

“Look, I-I know you weren’t expecting this to happen and I really am sorry that you had to find out this way -“ she has to pause to gulp in air - “but, Brad, I’m not going to let you be mean to me about how much I care about you because _I just can’t help it._”

She hates that she can’t even see any more, her eyes swimming in pinpricks of unshed tears, but by the time she finishes swiping away the worst of it she notices that Brad’s demeanor has completely changed.

He’s almost as pale as she is and his eyes look like they’re about to bug out of his skull. He swipes a massive paw over his face, looks at her incredulously like she’s about to up and disappear or something. His tongue darts out to wet his lips - his mouth feels like sandpaper - and Claire hates that she traces the movement with her eyes.

“Claire,” he whispers. “Claire, what - what did you just say?”

Jesus, the _nerve _on this guy, pushing her to the point of tears and then just sitting there, asking her to repeat herself like she even has the mental bandwidth to be _dealing _with this right now, they’re supposed to film tomorrow -

“Claire,” he says again, desperate. “Claire, I need you to repeat what you said _right now_,” he continues, voice cracking at the end. His entire torso is turned towards her, stretching, like he’s a tree and she’s the sun and he can’t help but be drawn to her.

And because she loves him, because she can never tell him no, especially not like this, she looks him square in the eye and says, as quietly as she can manage, “I said I’m sorry you had to find out like this, I didn’t mean for this to happen, but please don’t be mean to me because I can’t help how I feel about you.”

Brad’s eyes flutter shut and a serene smile crosses his face. When he opens his eyes again, a huge grin splits across his face. “Say it again,” he demands.

“Why are you making me do this?” she cries, feeling unfairly punished and like the universe is choosing the worst way in the world to tell her she’s done something terribly, karmically wrong on a horrific scale.

Brad just looks at her, face open and earnest, and with the utmost calm he says, “Claire, can’t you tell I’m completely in love with you?”

Claire thinks the ground might be falling out from under her. That, or this whole day has been the absolute worst dream of her entire life.

“I - what?”

“C’mere,” Brad says instead, lunging for her ankle and tugging her closer. “Claire, I’m going to need you to sit right back down because honestly I’m not sure I can stand up right now.”

She feels like her brain can’t quite catch up, like everything is playing at the sixteen-times speed to skip the previews on VHS tapes. She lets Brad guide her back down to sit, the forgotten wine bottle rolling harmlessly back down the dock with a quiet tink-tink-tink.

As soon as she’s settled, Brad looks at her solemnly. “I’m going to kiss you now, Claire.”

And before she can even process what that means, he’s cupping her jaw gently, reverently, and brushing his lips against hers. He presses oh so sweetly forward, breath warm and sweet where it whooshes past her mouth. She wants to kiss him back, more than she’s ever wanted to do anything, but she’s frozen, too scared to move and shatter this perfect moment they’re teetering over.

It occurs to her that she’s seizing up like bad ganache and she can barely hold back a burst of crazed laughter.

She keeps still in his arms for a beat too long and Brad retreats, eyes going cloudy and confused, but the intense fear of losing him is too raw and recent for her to let him go. Claire launches herself at his receding arms and for a long moment feels like she’s flying, weightless and free, until they tumble into the dark brackish water with a splash.

Claire tries to reach for him, even underwater, her body instinctively seeking his out. It’s Brad who pops up first, his height letting him find footing in the squishy murk, and he scoops her close to his chest. She twines her arms around his neck and revels in the feel of his ropey shoulders under her palms.

“Brad, I have zero clue what’s going on here,” she confesses, grinning all the while.

“Well, lookee here, Half Sour. Hate to break it to ya, but we’re both a coupla idiots,” he beams down back at her. Even in the darkness - god, what time even is it? - she can see the smile in his eyes.

His curls have gone all loose and stringy in the water; she loves the way they slip through her fingertips as she scratches her blunt nails across the base of his neck. She’s rewarded with a long, slow shudder that rolls through his body as he hitches her higher on his waist.

It occurs to her exactly what they’re doing, just then, pressed front-to-front, up to their shoulders in the bay during the middle of the night. She really would like to rewind the past five minutes and reexamine exactly how they ended up here because the last thing she really remembers is feeling that white hot rush of shame and anger at Brad’s exclamations.

She feels herself frowning, feels the giddiness begin to recede, and is stopped short by a “Nuh-uh, Saffitz, don’t go doin’ that on me. I can hear your thoughts clunkin’ all around that noggin, just let ‘em go for, like, ten more minutes.”

He pauses and she sees his smile soften, sees something warm and cozy and familiar settle in his features.

“I’ve gotcha, Claire,” he murmurs. “I’m right here. Be here with me.”

This time when he kisses her, she doesn’t freeze.

Despite the hour, the bay is lukewarm and comfortable, but Brad’s forearms sear her back through the thin fabric of her dress. His touch is confident and sure, and though he can easily support her on his own, she twists her legs around his waist just for an excuse to be closer to him.

Brad’s mouth on hers is hot, hotter even still than his bare skin against hers. She lets herself get lost in him - follows the lead of his tongue tracing the swell of her bottom lip and shivers at the trace of his fingers on her bare thigh beneath the water. He is passionate and gentle, handling her as delicately as she’d handled her mother’s dress in the attic what feels like a lifetime ago. Claire thinks that even without the wine, she’d be gone on the feeling of Brad’s lips coaxing her to open up and let him in.

The thought of the wine shakes her back to reality and she remembers with a start - the logic Brad’s jump from snapping at her to kissing her like his life depended on it was lost on her.

“Brad,” she says weakly, doing her best to avoid him as he fights to follow her lips. “I need - I’m so confused.”

Impossibly - improbably - he pulls himself away from her and takes a moment to catch his breath, looking down at her fondly all the while.

“Well, Claire, pretty simple. Stupid ol’ me thought your mom could see right through me. Thought you were tryin’ to tell me she wanted to tell me off for bein’ crazy bout ya.”

“Brad,” Claire sighs happily, still half-drunk on the taste of him on her lips. “You’re crazy about me?”

“’Fraid so,” he says seriously. “Got a confirmed case of Claire-itis.”

Her laugh, joyful and carefree, echoes across the still bay.

“And here I was thinking the same thing,” she confesses. “That you were put off by how obvious I was being. About you.”

“Obvious, Claire? C’mon, ya gotta give me more than that. Kind of a thick headed dope over here,” he says, easily shifting her weight into one arm to rap his head for emphasis. She likes how effortless it is for him to hold her up - she revels at all this power contained in such a gentle giant. She feels small against him, especially in the vast openness of the water, but he anchors her and holds her close.

“So you thought, what - that I was trying to let you down easy or something?” she asks, incredulous.

He shrugs.

“Yeah, well, ain’t often someone like you says yes to someone like me.” He focuses on something over her shoulder, eyes darting anywhere but her face, so she reaches up to take his cheeks firmly in hand.

“I feel the same way,” she says. “Yes, Brad, a hundred times yes.”

His shoulders slump a little, the last of the tension going out of him, and he wades back to sit her up on the dock. As tall as he is, her knees still swing well below his shoulders.

“A hundred times, huh, Saffitz? Gonna take us a while to get through all those,” he says before stepping in to find her lips once more.

*

They finally sneak back into the house when pale yellow dawn breaks over the trees, whispering and snickering like Claire’s friends tiptoeing home after teenage post-curfew parties. Brad nearly walks right into the sliding glass door on the back porch, so distracted is he by Claire’s dripping, clinging dress, and Claire dissolves into laughter so strong she can barely walk. Brad’s solution is to stoop down and swing her over her shoulder, carrying her fireman’s style until they can inch their way into her childhood bedroom amidst bursts of giggles shushed by tender kisses.

Much to Claire’s dismay, they set an early alarm to have Brad sneak out before Claire’s parents will be up and aware. She barely stirs when Brad slips out of bed, tugging on his still-damp shorts, and half-smiles at the gentle kiss he drops on her forehead before making a tactical retreat to his tent.

They think they’ve made it off scot-free when Claire pads down to breakfast several hours later to find Brad making cheerful conversation with Saudi as he fries up bacon. She risks shooting him a furtive glance over the top of her coffee mug while Sauci rummages in the fridge and is rewarded by an exaggerated wink. Something warm curls into her stomach, familiar and welcome, and she gulps down the too-hot brew to hide her giddy smile.

“I was just telling Brad stories about your rebellious teenage days,” Sauci informs Claire as she sets the milk and orange juice on the counter.

“And _I _told her if she thinks _you _were rebellious, she’s got a lot to learn about me,” Brad adds. “She was just tellin’ me ‘bout how you used to stay out for a whole _hour _past your curfew, Saffitz, ya heathen.”

Claire grins appropriately, can’t help but be thrilled at Brad fitting into her life so seamlessly, but something tickles the back of her bran. She’s known her mother long enough to know stories always have a punchline.

“Oh, that’s right, Brad, I never finished that story. I never told you how I always knew when Claire snuck in late, did I?” Sauci says casually, her knife scraping delicately against her slice of toast.

“Do tell,” Brad says with interest, and yep, there’s definitely something up her mother’s sleeve with that glint in her eye.

“Our bedroom is right below hers,” Sauci says mischeviously. “No matter how gentle you walk, the floorboards in front of Claire’s room creak every time you move. Every step, loud and clear.”

“Mom!” Claire gasps, taking in Brad’s flushed cheeks, which she knows mirror her own. She’s certain he’s thinking of how he pinned her up against her bedroom door for a long moment, unable to wait even a few more seconds to get into the privacy of her room.

“You owe me a bottle of cabernet,” Sauce calls behind her as she retreats with her toast and coffee back down the hall. “You’re welcome!”

**Author's Note:**

> thanks for making it to the end - hope you liked! 
> 
> come scream at me in in the discord


End file.
